Poetry

Again with the Noise

I reckon I wouldn’t change too much in my life

even if there are armies of skeletons

rattling and raving

behind the closet door.

I could hush the noise, perhaps,

but the utter silence always kills me.

Would I be an empty shell as they are

or would a marionette

be a more apt description?

I wouldn’t change the past, I suppose,

I couldn’t if I tried

but the noise

and the lack thereof

sure beg me to.

Poetry

Dancing in Utopia

Back and forth, this rocking chair

has one leg in the past,

dancing in utopia

of days that didn’t last.

One leg still remains right here

but it presents the now

which looks above and ahead

the sweat upon the brow.

Now, I can’t tell the future

but I can tell you this,

work or rocking chairs or dance–

with you it’s always bliss.

Poetry

The Question

I saw a vision of the future,

to my suprise–my joyous suprise!–

I saw what seemed to be

an image of you.

Like a beautiful painting

you had grown older

but with every bit of fascination,

grace, and maturity still about you;

some art has always been more

than what the eye can see.

I wandered over to you

but the dream ended

before I could ask you

my question:

did we have to compromise

our values

or did we compromise

as two hearts and souls

in love?

It was only a dream, I confess,

but we will meet and remember one day

to hopefully forget

the question.

Poetry

The Point of No Return

To forget the sins of the past

is folly

all present things considered–

like where would we be?

what would we know?

who would we know?

Wouldn’t dare leave that

to chance or fate,

sun, moon, or stars.

You think that I’m a fool

but we’re both standing here now.

So now I must know:

did I forget something

or did you?

Poetry

Happy Hour

The history tomorrow

is scattered moments today

carried off in a whirlwind

of future imaginations,

shaken, not stirred

into a flavored concoction

too bitter or too sweet

to drink;

the present and coming storms

and the twisting winds

of yesterday’s thoughts

bring rains to

keep the drink

full to its brim.

Poetry

#ThrowbackThursday

The good that I will to do

I do not do

but the evil I will not to do

I practice with each bitter

thought and recollection,

hoping for change

yet clutching to the bitter feelings

I try to put to death.

I can’t change the past, _______,

I won’t vilify you publicly

for what you did

but I won’t make excuses for you

as I once did.

I still love you, ______,

and I pray to God that we’ll both

grow in love and grace

and

forgiveness.

We don’t need the old memories

or a slew of new ones;

just peace,

my brother.

Just peace for the present.

.

.

.

.

.

Witness

Poetry

back in time

if i could go back in time

to take back those words i said

in haste

then i would ask for forgiveness

in light of my mistakes

with remorse and all alacrity and

with apology and action, still vulnerable,

because love is still

and it’s always there

as it’s the past’s and future’s present

from one soul to another

in patience, in kindness, in selflessness

to love more each day, your love being

the only thing i’d want . . .

if i could go back in time

Poetry

No One, P.O. Box: Somewhere

The box’s flag was now put down

so I rushed to get the mail,

I did not expect anything

since that’s all that came, no fail.

It was too soon and still I thought

there might be something in there

for I had mailed a letter to

No One

P.O. Box: Somewhere

To my surprise there was a note

there in that box most empty,

a letter–no return address–

with angry words aplenty.

“Do not reply, you callous fool,

rip this up like you agreed.

You will know it when you’re here

so don’t ruin it for me.”

That’s all he wrote within the note

but the story won’t end there,

I’ll write to future me again:

No One

P.O. Box: Somewhere

Poetry

Grounded

Childhood nightmares

of riding in cars

with no drivers

are quickly becoming reality–

electricity everywhere,

runs everything–

but what happens

when the plug

is pulled?

For now,

perhaps an answer

is in the palm

of my hand.

Tomorrow?

Perhaps it’ll prove unfounded,

perhaps safely grounded

in one way

or another

Poetry

A Cold Day’s Warmth

They built fires built for warmth

but it is only there

that the legends,

the myths,

the tall tales are told.

Light flickers,

imagination rages brilliantly,

and the embers remain

come morning.

Restless hearts and minds

shaken from equally

restless sleep.

Warmth is gone

but the dream remains

throughout the day . . .

Oh

to be legends

someday,

myths among men,

taller than the tall tales

shared

some cold night

around the warm fire.

Someday,

oh, someday.